33. Gage
GAGE
I’m setting the table for dinner when Bonnie calls.
“I need to change tonight,” she says. “The rider clinic got moved indoors, and they’ve asked if I can cover the late session. The other instructor’s stuck on the road.”
I look at the two plates. I bought the peppery roasted chicken she likes and olives with pits because I thought remembering would make her smile.
“Tonight?”
“I know. I’m sorry about dinner.”
“I turned down a trip to Texas because I thought we had plans.”
Bonnie is silent.
“You can tell me you’re disappointed,” she says. “I don’t need the bill for it.”
I put down the fork I am holding. “I shouldn’t have made my decision about Texas your fault.”
“No, you shouldn’t.”
The chicken is already out. I have spent all afternoon getting ready, and I nearly tell her that too. What answer am I trying to get? That she will leave the other instructor short because I bought dinner? I put the second fork down beside the first.
“I wanted to see you,” I say. “I still can, another night.”
“Tomorrow?”
“Tomorrow works.”
She asks if I can still have Cricket this evening. We had planned for our daughter to be here while Bonnie came for dinner; now Bonnie needs to teach. She asks twice whether it still works. Before I said anything about Texas, she hadn’t needed to check.
“Bring her when you planned,” I say. “I’ve got her dinner too.”
“Thank you.”
After we hang up, I put one plate away and leave the chicken in its bag on the counter. There’s an hour before Cricket arrives. I call the manager about that supposedly urgent Texas trip. He gives me the buyer’s questions; I have nothing to add to the answers he has already sent.
“All sorted, then,” I say. He agrees, and I have to find another way to spend the next forty minutes.
Bonnie arrives in work clothes with Cricket on her hip. She sees the table and the food waiting by the stove.
“You went to trouble.”
“I was making dinner.”
“Gage.”
I take the baby and kiss her cheek. Then I look at my wife.
“I was disappointed, and I took it out on you. I’m sorry. I’ll save you some chicken for when you get back.”
She nods slowly. “I’ll be late.”
“I’ll have the phone nearby.”
She kisses Cricket goodbye, then kisses me. I walk her to the door with our daughter in my arms.
Our daughter spends dinner trying to share hers with me. She has become generous with food she does not want. I accept the gesture without taking a bite from her fist, and she laughs at the mess on my sleeve.
Afterward we play on the floor. I let her pull herself up, then help her down when she gets uncertain.
The first time I lift her down too soon, she tries to climb straight back up.
The next time I wait with my hands ready.
She sits with a thump and looks offended, then reaches for me again.
I take a photograph for Bonnie to see when she finishes teaching.
By eight, Cricket is asleep in the crib. I warm the chicken, keep a portion and put the rest away for Bonnie. I ought to have made less. Still, it came out well. I take my plate to the table while the food is warm.
She calls after nine from the clinic. The session ran late, and she is tired. We agree Cricket can finish the night here. She has slept in that crib often enough, and moving her at this hour would only wake her. Bonnie asks whether I am sure I am rested enough.
“Yes. I’m already in for the night.”
“I’ll come early.”
“Text when you’re awake.”
She tells me about a rider who finally stopped gripping with her knees. I listen until Cricket makes a noise through the monitor, then go check her. She is still asleep. I tell Bonnie and return to the kitchen.
“I saved you dinner,” I say.
“With the olives?”
“With pits.”
She laughs, and the sound gives me some of the evening I wanted.
At midnight, Cricket wakes. I get up, attend to her, and settle her again. The work takes longer than I hope. I think about the early ride I planned and decide I can move it.
In the morning, Bonnie arrives with coffee. She looks tired and pleased with the work she did. I hand her our daughter, then tell her about the supported standing and the offered fistful of dinner.
She laughs at the photograph. She drinks her coffee while I warm the breakfast I meant to eat alone.
“I missed you last night,” she says.
“I missed you too.”
She turns the cup in both hands. “Last night was a bad evening. A small one. The bill came out.”
“It did.” My ears burn.
“And it went back in after one sentence. I noticed how long that took you.” She looks at me over the rim. “It used to take you a week.”
I can’t think of a thing to say to that. The pan spits behind me, and I jump.
She asks whether the bay minded waiting for his ride. I tell her I haven’t asked his opinion yet and get the second plate.
“Tell me about the late session,” I say.